


In Time

by hisbespokesociopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, I promise guys, M/M, More angst, More tags added as story progresses, Pining, Sherlock gets a tattoo, WIP, and it's for a good reason, but just the one, rating for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisbespokesociopath/pseuds/hisbespokesociopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How would it be to live in a world where everyone had a timer that counted down until the exact moment you met your soulmate? </p><p>How would you feel if you thought you had already met your soulmate but the timer didn't agree?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Meeting and a Weird Glitch

**Author's Note:**

> While I wish I did, I don't own any part of Sherlock.
> 
> Also, I've been writing this story for two years now. Updates are sporadic to say the least, but I really am trying to be better. No promises, but I think I finally got over the block that has held this story up for so long. I have written virtually every other chapter in my head, but this one has had me stuck for a long while. Hopefully updates will come sooner.

(Sherlock’s timer had just started counting down)

Clenching his hands tightly into fists, Sherlock felt his nails digging into fleshy palms as he worked through the pain. The high he had achieved just 30 minutes ago had begun to diminish. The needle dragged back over his raw skin once more before the tattoo artist pushed back from his table and declared he had finally finished.

“Thank god,” he muttered under his breath as he stood up, examining every detail in the intricate design that was now permanently inked on his skin. 

The skull that now covered the top half of his right forearm stared back at him grimly. Faint blue dots appeared between the dark lines briefly, making it look as if the tattoo was pulsing, alive. 

“I have to say,” the artist began as he was cleaning off the tools, “I’ve never actually covered up a timer before. Mind if I take a picture?”

He held his forearm out wordlessly and allowed him to snap a few photographs with the slim silver camera sitting on his desk. Pulling his sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff, Sherlock listened to him prattle on about proper care and cleaning instructions. He nodded slightly, thanking him for his work and left. When he stepped out of the shop he pulled out his phone and the screen illuminated with notifications of missed calls and texts.

“Sherlock, what-” With an annoyed sigh he deleted the message without even bothering to listen to the rest of it. Mycroft no doubt knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. Sherlock knew he didn’t agree with his decision and had called only to chastise him.

What he had just done might have been unorthodox, but in the end it was his choice. There was only two things in the world that mattered to him. He didn’t need romance or a soulmate, The Work and cocaine were the only important things. 

Some might say that at just 23 Sherlock was making a decision that he would regret later in life, but he could care less. It was his life, his bond, and his choice. There was no way he’d want to change anything later..

Right?

(8 years-ish later)

“Hey Sherlock, Molly here.” There was a pause. “Molly Hooper that is. Yeah, I- uh- have a fresh body in and it looks like it’s just what you were looking for. If you want to swing by today I’ll be here until 5. But- um- if you need me to stay later I can just call me back whenever you get this.” Another pause. “Or don’t. You know, just call me if you want to. I’m just gonna- Bye!”

After sending a quick text to Molly to let her know that he was on his way, he pocketed his phone and hailed a cab. 

“St. Bartholomew's Hospital,” he instructed the driver, slipping into the back seat. The cab began to pull away from the curb and he realized that he had forgotten something. “Wait! I need my riding crop, you’ll have to stop by my flat first.”

Rattling off the address, he ignored the look he got from the cabbie and gazed out the window.

\-----

Finally settling into a comfortable pace, John made his way through the park without his leg bothering him too terribly. He spotted a lunch truck parked not too far up the path and couldn’t help but think how wonderful a strong, hot cup of coffee sounded right now.

“John? John Watson?” 

The name John was pretty common place nowadays, but Watson wasn’t. Whomever was calling him obviously knew him, but today he was in no mood for idle chit-chat. He was half tempted to just keep walking as if he hadn’t heard them, but if they decided to chase after him there was no way he would outrun them. 

“Damn leg,” he muttered under his breath.

Turning around he saw a large man clutching a copy of the morning paper and attempting to get up. The mystery man looked familiar, but John had never been good with names and was having trouble placing the face.

“It’s Mike? Mike Stamford?” the man offered up with an extended hand.

“Oh yeah, of course. Mike Stamford from Barts.”

Settling back onto the bench, coffee in hand, Mike began to ask him what was going on in his life since they had last spoken. There were the usual questions which John answered politely, but, as it always does, the conversation turned to his time in the army.

“What happened, John? Last I heard you were off in Afghanistan getting shot at.”

“I got shot,” he replied simply and smirked into his cup as he watched Mike’s eyes widen with the realization of the faux pas he had just committed.

“Oh, right.” Clearing his throat he veered away from the topic as quickly as possible. “Have you timed out yet?”

Sneaking a glance down at his upper right forearm he shook his head. “Still got about two years left. You?” At the invitation, Mike took the opportunity to dive in and start rambling on about his mate. John checked out about 20 second in, but managed to hmm and oh? in all the right spots. They were currently hidden away, but even as they sat there his own little blue numbers ticked away. 

‘The timer’ as it was called, was a countdown clock that everyone was born with and appeared somewhere on the right upper forearm. From left to right it read a string of numbers that counted down to the second the very moment you were to meet your soulmate. Everyone was born with a different combination that ranged anywhere from one to ten years away. There was no warning or specific event that triggered the beginning. One day you just woke up to find that the numbers had started moving. People usually held parties when the timers started to signify that the journey to love had finally begun for them. 

Your mate is supposed to be complementary in every way. Often they shared the same interests, were from the same social class, and held a profession that equaled their partners. On the outside, a soul pairing could look like complete and total opposites, but when they melded together it was obvious to anyone around how compatible they were. In school, when they learned about the bond, it was encouraged to remain open-minded and unobjective in regards to everyone. Until you met, you never knew what your mate would look like. They could be any gender, ethnicity, religion, etc.

He wondered for a moment what he could expect in his mate. Would they be a doctor, a lawyer, something else? Did they have kids already? Were they someone that his parents would consider ‘safe’? It wasn’t as if he saw any of these things as bad, necessarily. He would settle into his quiet life comfortably and spend his days working, raising children, and being a good husband. 

A small voice in the back of his head reminded him of his Aunt Dee and Uncle Cliff and he found himself silently wished for a pairing like theirs. They had met when they were just 22 years old and Dee slapped Cliff before she realized who he was because he had spilled a coke on her new dress. The connection between them was instantaneous and undeniable, but if you asked anyone they would tell you that those two were different in just about every definition of the way. While Cliff liked jazz, fishing, and working with his hands, Dee was a natural born rock and roll wild child with a daring streak. In the years since, Cliff managed to tame her a bit, but she still managed to rope them into some new adventure every few years. 

He smiled to himself at the thought of leading an adventurous life like that. Never knowing what came next, blood pumping, and nearing a high from the rush of a combination of fear and adrenaline. It sounded crazy, improbable, and unlikely, but he still held out hope.

“John?”

Snapping back to the conversation, he refocused his attention on his friend. “Hm? I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I just asked if you were planning on staying in the city.”

As much as he would have loved to, there was no way it was possible. “London on an army pension?”

“Why not just get a flat share?”

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” he asked with a shrug, but noticed the look on Mike’s face. “What?”

“Did you know you are the second person to say that to me today?”

“Who’s the first?”

\--------

“Well, this is certainly different from my day.” Stepping through the door to the lab, John looked around the room at all the new equipment that sat on the desks. Before he got a chance to say anything else, someone spoke up from the other side of the room.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine”

The man across the room was bent peering into a microscope, but from where John was standing he could see a mess of dark ravenwood curls in a black suit carefully studying a slide. Taking off his jacket, he draped it over the back of a nearby chair and glanced at Mike.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?”

That dark head popped up and John finally got a good look. The wild curls framed a pale, slender face that was almost the definition of aristocratic. His light green or pale blue eyes, there was no way to distinguish from this distance, conveyed utter annoyance before he bent back down to his microscope. “I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

He had his own mobile was tucked away in his pocket. “Er, here…use mine.” Shuffling over, John held the phone out.

The stranger looked up as if noticing John for the first time. “Oh, thank you.”

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike offered up. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question took John by surprise and it was a moment before he responded. “Sorry?” Maybe he’d just not heard him right.

“Which one was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

What the bloody hell? What kind of game was this man playing at? “Afghanistan.” He stepped forward just a hair. Part of him was intrigued, the other slightly annoyed. “Sorry, how did you..”

Before he could finish his thought, a small, mousy girl came barreling into the lab, paper cup in hand.

“Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.” He took a long sip and then set the cup on the table. “I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometime I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

So this wasn’t as spontaneous as he had first thought. Obviously Mike had taken the time to contact him before hand. “You told him about me?”

“Not a word,” his friend said with a small smile.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” 

That slightly annoyed look made a reappearance on his face. “I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap,” he said in a bored tone.

Okay, that was explainable, sort of, but.. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“Got my eyes on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening seven o’clock,” he said, completely ignoring John’s question. “Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“We've only just met, and we’re going to go and look at a flat?” This time it was John wearing the annoyed look. 

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

“I know you’re an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help, because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” Glancing at both John and Mike he gave a final, “Afternoon.” before he turned and left. 

John was frozen in a state of ‘what the hell just happened’ and looked up at Mike. 

“Yeah, he’s always like that.” He laughed and turned to leave. “Come on, I’ll finish giving you the tour before you take off.” 

Reaching out to grab his coat, John felt a sharp pain shoot up his right forearm. He rolled up the sleeve of his jumper to try and find the cause. Instead of finding the usual string of numbers slowly ticking away on his arm, he saw that all the numbers now read zero. Something had to have happened because just this morning he saw the usual numbers counting down on his arm before he slipped the jumper on. He was just about to call after Mike to have him take a look, but the timer disappeared altogether momentary and when it reappeared his usual countdown had resumed. 

That should have been the strangest thing that had happened to him today, but the scene with the stranger- no, he corrected himself, Sherlock- didn’t hold a candle to this. He chalked it up to a weird fluke, readjusted his sleeve, grabbed his coat, and hurried after Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I forget, this was kinda-sorta inspired by the movie of the same name. It doesn't have anything to do with soulmates, but that's where I got the 'timer' idea.
> 
> In case you were wondering, this is how John's timer would look about now: 1:11:02:22:13:48.
> 
> That's one year, eleven months, two days, twenty-two hours, thirteen minutes, and forty-eight seconds.
> 
> As for Sherlock's, I wish I knew, but it's covered by that huge skull tattoo!
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to shoot me an ask. I'm hisbespokesociopath.tumblr.com :)


	2. Madmen and Insufferable Dark-Haired Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took forever to update, I'm sorry! If you did read the first chapter I posted forever ago, please go back and re-read. That was posted at about 5 in the morning after a day of no sleep and a plot bunny that just wouldn't let go.   
> This isn't beta'ed and any con-crit is always welcomed.

 

If someone had told John that he would actually become friends with that insufferable, dark haired bastard with the funny name that he first met at St. Barts. a year ago, he might have laughed in their face. But, here he was, a year into their new friendship and John found himself enjoying life more than he ever thought he would.

During the day he worked part-time at a local clinic tending to the sick and stitching up wounds, but at night it was as if he stepped into someone else’s life. Jumping rooftops, chasing criminals through the London underground, and capturing serial killers had somehow become the norm along the journey from there to now.  

That aforementioned bastard had also begun to grow on him.

It had started out innocently enough. On the night John had gone to look at the flat he had gotten pulled into his first real case. Multiple ‘suicides’, mysterious pills, and a dying cabbie had all cumulated together and ended with Sherlock in one building only a moment from swallowing the pills and John in another with only a gun in hand.

In the end, John really didn’t even think before he had the window open and the trigger pulled.

As he watched the cabbie fall and Sherlock drop the pills, John realized that he had stopped breathing the moment he saw Sherlock about to potentially end his life. They had known each other for all of a day and already John knew that he didn’t want to know what living with that glorious bastard felt like.

Thinking back on it now as he sat in his chair, sipping tea, and watching the detective work through his latest case, maybe that was the moment John had started his slow descent into what could only be called madness.

Because loving someone you had absolutely zero chance with could only be described as madness.

He had no illusions as to what would become of his undoubtedly unrequited feelings for his flatmate. Besides the fact that Sherlock had already expressed the fact that he had no time or desire to carry on any sort of romantic relationship, he had covered his timer for christs sakes, John was 35 years old and knew that things like that just didn’t happen to people like him anymore. He would meet his bondmate in little under a year and his life would resume its natural course.

As hard as he tried, it seemed that everyone in his life picked up on his seemingly obvious attraction to Sherlock, save for the detective himself. John squashed the rumors as quickly as he could, but they all still carried around that knowing glint in their eyes... ‘I know what you want but we both know you’ll never actually get it.’

The light blue numbers ticked away on his arm silently and John peered down at them in a mix of gratitude and disgust.

As much as it would be nice to be rid of these feelings, John didn’t want to imagine how much his life would change in just a years time. Would those fantastic days of capturing criminals and solving intricate puzzles be a thing of the past?

His new mate would most likely expect him to settle down and start a family. Kids, white picket fences, a dog- the whole nine yards.

A year ago he would have accepted the plan without so much as a slight hesitation, but now settling into some monotonous routine seemed the very definition of torture.

Now all he wanted was a life of takeaway, kidnappings, and body parts in the fridge. He wanted Sherlock, and everything that came along with his eccentric friend, plain and simple.

Speaking of, John peered up at the detective and tried to remember the last time he had seen him actually eat something...

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“When is the last time you ate?”

“Transport, John. I’ve told you, it’s only transport and food only hinders my process,” Sherlock explained in an aggravated tone.

“Yes, well one of these days the transport is going to drop dead if you don’t take care of it.”

“I hardly think two days-”

“Two days, Sherlock?”

“As always I am almost certain-”

“Sherlock.” It wasn’t one of his usual exasperated ‘Sherlocks’, this singular word was deep, commanding and the detective knew when he had been beat.  

“Fine.” The admission of defeat was almost a sneer, “Toast and tea, if you please.”

John chuckled to himself and went about preparing the food for Sherlock, arranging it all on a neat little tray and carrying back into the sitting room to find that the detective hadn’t moved from his previous position.

“Up,” he said, setting the tray on the table and swatting Sherlock’s legs with a newspaper to bring him out of the recesses of his mind palace, “Time to eat.”

Grumbling, Sherlock sat up and complied, shooting John a fairly annoyed look.

“We’re out of milk and I need to run to Tesco. Do you think I could leave you alone for a bit without coming home to new bullet holes in the wall?” John asked. It wasn’t too far out of the possibility. He had been gone for shorter periods of time and come home to worse.

“Yes, fine. But as long as you’re going out, do you think you could stop by the morgue and pick up something for me? Molly has gathered some new specimens for me and I told her I would be by to collect them.”

“Meaning that you said you would send me by to pick them up,” he said, shrugging into his heavy green coat. When Sherlock didn’t answer he took that as a yes and slipped on his shoes. “Tell her I’ll be there in an hour.”

Mouth full of toast, Sherlock waved his hand in agreeance and John headed out the door.

Almost two blocks from the flat, John noticed a black town car that had been following him and sighed. Why was it that the Holmeses were so dramatic? Normal people simply called or emailed.

He stopped and walked up to the car window, rapping angrily on the glass twice. “Mycroft, haven’t you heard of a bloody phone? This is starting to get out of hand.”

The window slowly lowered and instead of the elder Holmes, John found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Hello,” the stranger began in a cheerful tone, “If you would be so kind as to get in, you won’t give me cause to use this.”

John opened the door hesitantly and slid in, not fully knowing what to expect. Army training kicked in and he immediately began looking around for potential weaknesses or items that could be used as weapons.

“Tsk, tsk. There will be none of that now, Mr. Watson.” The stranger admonished in his thick Irish accent. “We’re going to take a nice little ride and have a chat about one of our mutual friends.”

-X-

_Ding_

Fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock ignored his phone and focused his attention back to his latest puzzle- Moriarty.

It had been almost two weeks since he had solved the case involving the pink ladies phone and he had yet to be contacted again by the mysterious psychopath.

_Ding_

Two weeks ago it seemed as if Moriarty’s whole world revolved around Sherlock and their game, but as soon as he saved the child, all communicated had stopped and he didn’t know what to make of it.

After everything had been wrapped up it seemed that the psychopath had simply given up, but he couldn’t shake this overwhelming- _Ding_ \- sense of dread that something worse was coming.

_Ding Ding Ding_

“Does no one grasp the concept of ‘leave me alone’ anymore?” From his position on the couch he could see the illuminated screen of his mobile and he considered just leaving it until John came back around, but another shrill _Ding_ forced him up.

The number on the screen was unfamiliar and for a moment he thought about just deleting the messages, but another _Ding_ prompted him to open them.

It took a few seconds for him to register the text, because as soon as he opened the messages his eyes were drawn to the little picture. John, his John, was shackled to a wall and strapped to his chest was a dark contraption that was unmistakably a bomb.

**Fancy resuming our game?**

**Are you ignoring me, Sherlock?**

**You wound me so...**

**I have something of yours.**

**_Shinynewtoy.jpg_ **

**Can you save him like you saved the others?**

**Not even that is worthy of a response?**

**In two minutes, Doctor Watson loses a toe. Respond or your ‘colleague’ will be walking funny tomorrow. And not in a good wa** y..

There wasn’t time for actual questions, so Sherlock responded with a simple, ‘Where?’.

He rushed into his bedroom and began pulling on clothes. As soon as Moriarty sent him the location he would be out the door. Too much time had already lapsed since he first captured John because he had stupidly ignored his phone- _stupid, stupid, stupid._

If any harm came of John because of him-. The thought was simply too much to bear. They had been living together for almost a year now and in that time it seemed as if John had managed to work himself into every part of his life. To separate the two at this point would be unbearable.

As it was, in what seemed like just a few months, John would be taken from him. Those blue numbers on his arm counted down to what Sherlock was sure would be his destruction.

Eleven months, thirteen days, three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and seventeen seconds to be precise.

His whole life he had taken such extensive precautions to make sure he was never afflicted by the disease people referred to as sentiment.

But it had taken John exactly 10 hours and 52 minutes to break down the walls he had so carefully constructed and guarded his entire life. One bullet had made the whole thing collapse around him, leaving Sherlock confused, upset, and, worst of all, wanting something he couldn’t have.

John’s mate had already been decided upon long ago and there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop the oncoming storm. Soon, he would leave Sherlock, just as everyone else had without even a second look.

_Ding_

**168 W. Sixth St.**

_Ding_

**You know the drill. Come alone or I’ll blah, blah, blah..**

_Ding_

**Let’s just say the Doctor wouldn’t be able to say much if you didn’t :p See you soon!**

Slipping on his Belstaff, Sherlock darted upstairs to grab John’s Browning and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers before rushing out of the flat.

-X-

Consciousness slowly creeping in back around him, John tried to assess the area where he was, but failed to distinguish anything besides the thick grey brick walls surrounding him.

The heavy chains that shackled his wrists to the wall did well to constrict him, but with a bit of effort John was sure he could at least stand.

The fog in his mind was still looming and it took him another few moments to look down and register what it was that was wrapped around his middle.

“Well, this can’t be good.”

A door across the room opened

“Doctor Watson, you couldn’t be more correct,” Moriarty replied lazily as he walked into the room.

“I already told you I’m not going to do or tell you anything.”

“Oh, I knew that before I even picked you up,” the criminal said with a slight shrug.

“Then what exactly is the point?” John asked, “Let me go or kill me. I’m not just going to stay chained up in here forever.”

A dark chuckle emanated from Moriarty and John could just see the joyful gleam of his eyes. That bastard was enjoying this and it made him sick.

“You, little duck, are just the bait. I’m waiting for the big fish to get here so the party can really start!”

“Sherlock’s not just going to barrel in here without some sort of plan and back-up!” While Sherlock could be called many things, stupid certainly wasn’t one of them. He told the arrogant ass as much.

“Oh Johnny Boy, that’s where you’re wrong! People do all sorts of crazy things when they're in-..” Jim stopped short, covering his mouth with his hands. “You haven’t figured that part out yet, not many people have actually, so lets save that little goody for another day.”

Confused and disoriented, John opened his mouth to ask the psychopath to explain, but was stopped short by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

“Ah!” Moriarty exclaimed, “As they say, ‘The cavalry is here!’” Slipping his hand into the breast pocket of his coat he withdrew a long metal key and tossed it to the other side of the room. “Tell Sherlock to find me when he comes ‘round.” The large metal door opened once more and the criminal slipped out soundlessly.

-X-

Loading a new clip into the revolver, Sherlock slowly turned the corner, looking for any sign that John might be being kept somewhere near. Several different thoughts ran through his mind at once and he tried to imagine the condition that he would find his flatmate in. The only thought he would not entertain was the possibility of John being anything less then alive.

Finding an unlocked door he pushed through the doors and swept over the room with quick efficiency. If it hadn’t been for the small voice, he never would have noticed John opposite him.

“Sherlock!”

He crossed the room quickly and stooped down to the blogger’s level, looking for any obvious contusions. Grasping John’s chin, he tilted his head up to examine the  straps and wires criss-crossing and looping over his shoulders. His fingers ghosted down John’s neck and rested momentarily in the spot betwixt his shoulder and neck, a bit longer than actually necessary, before Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled away.

“Moriarty pulled something that looked like a key out of his coat and threw it that way,” he said, jerking with his chin in the general direction of the darkened corner.

Sherlock jumped back up and sprinted towards the spot. “Where the hell is it?” he growled, taking his mobile out of his pocket to use as a light.

“Are you sure he threw it over.. Ah ha!” Picking up the key, he raced back over towards John and freed his hands.

“Moriarty said that to tell you to ‘come find him when you came ‘round.”

“Don’t really have much of a choice do I?” Pointing to the bomb still circling John’s torso he sighed, “No doubt he’s got that on some sort of radio transmitter. One step out of place and BOOM.”

The detective turned and started for the door when John grabbed his wrist. “You don’t have to do this, Sherlock. Me being blown up is one thing, but the world can’t afford to lose you.”

A look of confusion and shock crossed Sherlock’s face before he turned again and crowded John against the wall. “The world could live without me,” he paused and John saw those grey-blue eyes soften, “but I don’t think I could live without you.”

The words were almost a whisper and if he hadn’t known any better, John would have swore there was sentiment behind them. They stood there for a moment, neither of them wanting to be the first to move.

“Just don’t say things like that, John,” Sherlock said, “You are far more valuable than you realize.”

He nodded and Sherlock took a step away from him.

“Shall we?”

The detective smiled and tipped his head. “Let’s go catch a madman.”

John let out a short laugh, “Thanks, but I’ve already got one of those,”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am looking for a beta, so if you know of one or are willing to offer your service, I would be forever in your debt. Your comments and kudos are the highlights of my day :)


	3. Confetti blasts and More Glitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, but I'll make up for it in the next one!
> 
> Con-crit welcome as always!

Exiting the room, Sherlock turned, handed the Browning back to John, and extracted the extra clips from his coat pocket. “Do you think you’re up for this?” Sherlock asked. 

“Of course,” he nodded, taking the clips. “You do the talking and I’ll point the gun, business as usual.”

A smile spread across Sherlock’s face. Not even a bomb strapped to his chest could deter John from the action. “Do try and resist the urge to pull the trigger if possible. Unlike the cabby, I’d actually like to interrogate him” 

“Oy, you were going to take those bloody pills. What was I supposed to do?”

“I wasn’t actually going to take them, John,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, stalking down the corridor to the right.

“Yeah, uh-huh.” He replied with a roll of the eyes, cocking the gun. 

The hallway winded to the left and then to the right as they followed Moriarty’s path. There were doors on either side of the hall spaced about 30 or so feet apart. ‘Not this one’ ‘Nope’ ‘Not here either’ and notes to a similar effect were scrawled in a sloppy script and stuck to all of the doors. They tried the doors just to be sure, but each was locked. 

“Sherlock, look,” John said, nudging the detective and pointing towards a smooth pine door, sans any type of note.

A quick check of the confirmed that the door was unlocked. Sherlock nodded once and John drew up his gun, trailing behind his partner. 

“Hello boys!” A cheerful Irish accent shouted from across the room. Moriarty was perched in a chair, shrouded in shadows, but the glint of the silver pistol in his hand was unmistakable. 

“I thought you didn’t like to get your hands dirty,” Sherlock remarked.

The psychopath’s Cheshire grin spread across his face as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “This little thing?” He raised the gun and pointed it squarely and unmistakably at Sherlock’s head before pulling it back towards his own and squeezing the trigger. 

John gasped as he saw the hammer of the gun release, convinced that the madman had foolishly taken his life, when confetti sprung out of the barrel and showered around Moriarty. 

He cackled loudly, catching a piece of the floating confetti and waving it in the air. “No need for guns, really. Not when I have these boys on the payroll.”

On cue, three different red dots appeared on the chests of both Sherlock and John. Sniper lasers aimed directly for their hearts and vital organs. The detective scoffed, “We both know that you don’t want us dead, so drop the act. What do you want?”

“Oh, my dear,” Moriarty’s voice lowered and the expression on his face changed to a much more serious expression, “don’t mistake my actions the last time we met. By the end of this, you will both be dead.” He cocked his head and pointedly looked at John. “It’s the genius that I want, his little sidekick is meaningless to me.” Sizing John up he spoke again, “In fact, it might make the game more interesting if I did just get rid of him..” He raised his hand as if to signal.

Sherlock stepped back, flush against John’s chest. “If it’s my brain that you want, you can have it. But if any harm comes to John Watson I refuse to play for one second longer. Kill this man and no matter what moves you make, I won’t play your game.”

Moriarty smirked. “Down, boy. I’m not going to hurt precious little Johnny, I was just having a bit of fun.” He rose from where he was seated and walked towards them. Sherlock stood firm and held his ground as Jim stepped directly in front of him. He reached up and stroked a finger across Sherlock’s cheek before moving towards his jacket sleeve and pulling it up, revealing the tattoo on his forearm.

“Little Sherlock, so scared of love he covered the one connection to it he had.” Stepping back he pulled up his own sleeve to reveal a bare forearm, something that was very rare. “You conceal yours and I was born without one, if I was capable, i'd say you were my soulmate.” He grinned and dipped his hand into his pocket, bringing out a key. “But we both know psychopaths and sociopaths don’t get soulmates, right Sherlock? Those little blue numbers you’ve tried to conceal aren’t even moving anymore, did you notice?”

He tossed the key at Sherlock and backed away, walking back to his dark corner and disappearing through a door hidden in the wall.

A huff behind him jarred Sherlock and he turned to John to unlock the bomb strapped to his chest. As soon as it was off and thrown across the room, it was John’s turn to crowd Sherlock. “Don’t ever put yourself in harms way like that again, do you understand me?” The thought of Sherlock offering up his own life to protect his was so horrible he couldn’t even comprehend it. “You are the brains and I am the muscle. The world without John Watson would survive, but a world without Sherlock Holmes isn’t a place i’d want to be.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face changed and he pushed John back minutely. “Their world may continue, but mine wouldn’t.” With that he drew John in again and he could feel Sherlock’s lips press slightly against his temple before withdrawing and stepping out the door. Before he could respond or follow, a pain shot through his right arm again and he pulled up his sleeve to see the numbers on his arm glitch once more before continuing to tick once again.


End file.
